


Biting Down

by ab2fsycho



Series: Revolve [20]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: M/M, Paul is the only sane person when did this happen, flora ain't take no shit, getting the info, prison talks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes one must confront those they do not wish to in order to save the ones they love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biting Down

**Author's Note:**

> A very Happy Birthday to Sophie! Here is present: early update.

He was sick in so many ways entering into the prison that he almost stepped on a black and white cat's paw as he went. His head was spinning, his stomach was turning, his limbs felt unsteady and shaky, but worst of all was the burning in his eyes and chest. He hadn't felt such intensity in so long, and truthfully he'd hoped to never feel it again. Yet here he was.

He didn't need to control it really, but he wanted to. If he planned to get anything done, if he planned to save Layton, he would need his head clear. Right now he was at a pinnacle of fog he had never reached before in his recent past. If not for Flora gripping his arm and fiercely grounding him, he might have flung himself off of something by now. It wouldn't be the first time he'd attempted falling off of an edifice as a means of escape.

The glass separating them from those imprisoned felt too thin and penetrable. He was having a hard time conjuring up a scenario in which he didn't punch the glass. But he had to be here. They had to speak with this Clive, who might know something. Technically they didn't have to interact with anyone else at all.

But Des knew his luck. He knew who he was going to see today whether he liked it or not. It was his only other option should this fail. He was practically begging the universe for this Clive character not to fail.

When the inmate was brought forth to sit before the glass, Des was taken aback. He'd seen Clive's pictures in the paper. He knew what he looked like. In person, he just hadn't expected him to look so much like Luke Triton. If this was the real reason why Layton sometimes had a hard time seeing the young man alongside Flora, he could see why.

Flora sat across from him on the other side of the glass and picked up the phone. Her hands were shaking as she held the speaker close and whispered while Don Paolo stayed on the lookout for any eavesdroppers. Des listened as carefully as he could, picking up on Flora's end of the conversation. She explained the situation discreetly, voice low and eyes shifting nervously. He could just barely read Clive's lips as he asked why she hadn't called the police yet. She gave him the reasons they had conjured back at home, then proceeded to ask him what he knew of the organization she kept referring to. 

“Where could they have gone?” she asked. “Surely they didn't stay anywhere remotely near the scene of the incident.” Des shook his head at the statement. It was true. The region that had been desecrated during the Future London incident was entirely clear of Targent and the Family. They'd scattered like cockroaches after the failed complete destruction of London. Clive looked past Flora and to Des, squinting as he murmured her a question. Des crossed his arms, gaze narrowing just as much as Clive's as Flora answered, “He's privately investigating Targent.” That was a good way to put it. He didn't commend Flora often enough for her cleverness. 

Clive returned his focus to her, eyes somewhat manic as he clearly mouthed, “I don't like him.”

“Too bad,” she snapped a little. “Where could they have gone?”

Clive's answer was as Des had feared: he shook his head and said, “I don't know.”

“Let me talk to him,” Des declared. Don Paolo turned a suspicious look upon him, but Flora didn't hesitate to get up and turn the seat and phone over to him. Heart pounding, he took a deep breath and introduced himself, “I'm Professor Desmond Sycamore. Can you—?”

“I thought I recognized you,” were the first words he heard from the young man before his eyes lost their almost deranged look in favor of a more calculating one. “You're a fantastic example of someone screwed over by society, aren't you?”

So the man had investigated him as well. Fantastic. He could have gone his whole life without another gawking journalist. Sighing loudly, he asked, “What do you know about the Family?”

“I know you were one of the scientists they failed to acquire, on several accounts. Congratulations. How'd that work out for you?” Des was already seeing red the more the young man spoke. Then Clive asked, “What's the professor to you?” 

The question was almost a warning in and of itself, and the first thing the young man had said that hadn't infuriated Des to the point of lowering his voice to a dangerous octave. “A dear friend.” Clive didn't look like he believed him, which only made Des's glare intensify. “Are you going to help me find him or not?”

Clive shook his head slower this time. “He's gotta be more than a friend for you to come to me with _that_ look on your face.”

And with that, Des's voice dropped to that octave and his vision became sharper. “It doesn't matter. Just tell me what you know.”

Clive glared and tilted his head, like he knew the voice. Impossible. He couldn't recall ever having met the boy in his whole life. But he seemed to get the picture enough to offer up, “They left the country initially. Then they came back. They've been frequenting the prison of late.”

It was Des's turn to tilt his head. “Speaking with you?”

Dread took over as Clive answered, “No. They tried speaking to me once, and quickly learned I wasn't about to waste my time with them again. Same with Dmitri, as a matter of fact. We've washed our hands of that incident as best we can while doing time for our crimes.”

Des really didn't want to ask the next question, but he had to. He couldn't afford not to. “Who have they been consulting?”

The answer was just as he expected. “Their former leader. He's still the only one who has access to half of Targent's resources.” Des closed his eyes, lowering his head. That bastard had been thorough in securing his leadership position, hadn't he? Even after the alleged 'change of heart' he was still a puppet master with the strings wrapped thoroughly around his fingers. Clive continued speaking with, “From what I've gathered, Targent is significantly smaller and underfunded. There is a monetary source, but no one says any names or references the individual or organization so I can't provide that. This source is trying to eliminate as many people as possible involved in a particular incident I myself was part of, and they apparently enlisted Targent for this.” Des looked up to see Clive's eyes darting back and forth, like he was recalling an exact conversation from memory, his own mind growing fuzzier over the word 'eliminate.' “I don't know the names of all the targets. But if its the incident I'm thinking of, the explosion, then Layton must be on that list.”

Des's eyes went wide as he turned to Don Paolo. This time it was the others who had to come clean. “Why was Layton involved in Future London anyway?”

Everyone started to answer at once, but it was Clive's voice he heard, “Ten years ago, an explosion in a lab took out part of an apartment building. In the explosion were my parents, and Dmitri Allen's assistant. She was as dear to Layton as Layton is to you, I presume.” Des pinned him with a gimlet stare before the news sank in entirely.

It was Don Paolo who continued with, “The Future London incident was an act of retribution for what that explosion stole from Dove and Allen. I don't think Allen knew what he was getting himself into with this fool, though.”

Clive sighed on the phone. “I probably don't want to know what he just said.” It was difficult remembering that only Des's voice could be heard by the young man, so the statement surprised him for a moment.

“During the time after the initial explosion,” Don Paolo continued, “Layton researched the causes for the explosion but was beaten and had said research stolen as a result of his blasted persistence. His family had to beg him to stop before he got himself killed. All that research got brought up again when Future London happened.”

Des mulled over the information quickly before asking Clive, “Would the source kill Layton for his knowledge on these subjects?”

Clive nodded. “The only reason Dmitri and I aren't dead yet is because we're in here, keeping our mouths shut as much as possible.” He rolled his eyes. “If I keep talking, that might change.”

“Not unless I can find the organization and stop them myself.” The word 'eliminate' repeated itself over and over in his mind. Could Layton be dead already? He couldn't be. Des couldn't believe that. Closing his eyes and sighing, he tried to slow the beating of his heart and pumping of his blood but failed. It was time. He knew what he had to do. He just really, truly didn't want to go through with it. He thought of Layton. He knew he must. “Send in Leon Bronev.”

Clive's sigh made him narrow his eyes on the young man. “He won't speak to anyone anymore. After the last visit, he refuses—”

“Tell him his son is here.” Clive's eyes shot wide, and Des had to shut his eyes not to make some snarky remark about the way it made him look like a ten-year-old Des once knew. A young teen Clive had met. “And if he asks which one, tell him its the one who, for all intents and purposes, should be dead.”

There was a long pause before Clive nodded and stood. Escorted from the seat, Des rested the phone on his shoulder and let out a loud huff. He didn't want to do this. He wanted to run. Everything inside him was telling him to run. Once again he wondered how thick the glass was, if it was truly thick enough that it wouldn't break should someone punched it. Dear Lord, he hoped so.

A gentle hand touched Des's shoulder. Without looking up he knew it was Flora, who whispered, “Do you want me to do the asking?” He shook his head. He needed to do this. If what Clive said was true, Bronev wouldn't speak to just anyone.

He stared at the blank space through to glass for a long time, anticipating the moment it would be filled once more. He knew he wasn't ready, knew he'd never be ready to face the man who'd taken so much from him. If he had his way, he would never take anything from him again. He just needed to keep calm.

Des barely recognized the man who settled into his view. He was haggard, like his age had finally caught up with him, and his face was struck with disbelief. He wasn't nearly as cold and refined as he'd been three years before, not nearly blindly determined to achieve his own goals by any means necessary. Good. That gave Des more satisfaction that he could have ever imagined.

But it also ignited a rage in him when the man picked up the phone and started off with the words, “You are the absolute last person I expected to see.”

The words that fled his mouth were not in any way controlled. “Believe me, you are the last person I want to see.” Glaring at the old man, who clearly steeled himself for a confrontation, Des went straight to business, “Where is the new headquarters located?”

Bronev was visibly taken aback by the question. “I am no longer the leader. Where they go isn't my concern—”

“But you know where they are,” Des snapped. “They've been seeing you. They've needed you to approve their theft of your former assets. You know where they've gone.”

The old man looked perplexed. It had been rare to see him like that. It was the closest to vulnerability Leon Bronev ever got, it seemed. Des would have died to see more three years ago, but now he just wanted to get what he needed and get out. He needed to get to Layton before the man was harmed. Bronev pursed his lips at first, then declared, “What are you planning, Sycamore?”

“Don't sit there,” he growled through gritted teeth, “and pretend,” his voice dropped again, vision red around the edges, “that the lives of your men matter now that you're behind bars.”

“Well,” his voice turned cunning and nonchalant, a tone Des expected from him, “I'd be lying if I said they mattered more than they did before. But—”

“Save it. I don't believe for one second that your morality has changed in any way.”

“I died that day, too, if you don't recall.”

“After years of killing and ruining lives. Yes. One death sure does bring us some comfort.” They both glared at one another. “You deserve to die as many times as you've killed.”

“I know,” Bronev snarled. “And I would if it could make amends for the time wasted chasing a civilization that only meant to annihilate us.”

Des scoffed. “You should be sick with yourself that that's the only reason you have for regretting what you did.”

“I am.”

“No.” Des tensed, clenching the fist in his lap as he tilted his head downward. “You're not nearly sick enough.” Reining in his temper, he closed his eyes and let out a breath. Bile threatened to rise in his throat, as it always seemed to upon looking at the fiend before him. The glass better be thick enough. Truly it had better be. “Where are they?”

“Not at the Nest, I suppose. I assume you've scoured the planet for old hideouts.”

“You assume correctly. Where. Are. They?”

“Even if I did know, why would I tell you?”

“Why the bloody hell—?”

The phone was yanked from his iron grip and Don Paolo's gruff voice demanded, “Quit your posturing and tell us where Targent would take their hostages!”

The phone was dropped back into Des's hand, leaving both men looking just as equally shocked and offended at the interruption. The Bronev's features softened, but not so much that he didn't lose his air of authority. “So someone's been taken. Need I even hypothesize who?”

Des's chest grew pained. “You heard the man. Answer the question.”

“That wasn't much of question. Nor was he much of a man. What exactly is he supposed to be?”

Des's anger bubbled up once more. “Give us the information we need and you won't be bothered again. By anyone.” He looked the bastard over. “You can rot in here in solitude for all I care.”

“It's the professor isn't it?”

“Just give me an answer.” Because Des wasn't positive he could sit through this any longer. His stomach was twisting in ways he hadn't thought possible in a very long time.

“Is it Layton? Answer me that.”

Des lost it. Fist leaving his lap, he slammed it against the glass and bellowed, “Tell me where to find him?!”

“Sir!” a policeman cried as he intervened. “I'm going to have to ask you to leave, now.”

“Not till I'm through with him!” Des screamed, gripping the phone to his face for fear someone else would pull it from his grasp.

“Now, there's a voice I haven't heard in a long time,” were the last words he heard from Bronev before Des, Don Paolo, and Flora were being escorted (in two cases dragged) from the premises.

(:)

“God, your temper is legendarily _inconvenient_!”

“Yours would be too if you'd seen what I'd seen.”

Both men were still fuming as Flora struggled to keep up with them storming away from the doors. A cat darted out in front of them, forcing them to a standstill as Paul bellowed back, “If you'd just kept it under control a little longer, we might've had a chance at finding Layton!”

“There's still a chance!”

“What are you gonna do? Raid the whole city?!”

“If I have to!”

“Can you two quiet down and knock it off!” she cried over the men. She was still shaking. She wasn't sure she'd stopped shaking since coming home to a house in disrepair. If she had, she certainly hadn't noticed. At the very least, the two shut up long enough for her to say, “Surely we learned something of use back there.”

“Yeah, we learned not to trust this asshole to do the talking!” Paul shouted.

“Watch your language!”

“We can't fight like this!” She took her place between the two, backing them both down. “We need to focus on the real issue at hand. I'll give you a hint: it's not the fact that either of you are particularly decent at communicating.” Cradling her head in her hands, trying to stop the world from spinning, she let out a long, exasperated sigh. “We need to come up with a plan.”

Paul shook his head. “We need a location for a plan.”

“Not necessarily.” All three looked up to see a man they didn't recognize approaching them from the building they'd just left. With a policeman's attire on, they were about to start backing off and fumbling over what it was they'd just been discussing when he removed his hat and, along with it, a face mask. Paul glanced around, as though double checking to make sure no one saw the transition as Flora wondered hastily just who the old man approaching them was. It wasn't until Des let out a shocked gasp, befuddled face quickly transitioning to one of relief, that she guessed who the man was. This must be Des's friend. At the moment, he was holding up a piece of paper that looked like it had an address on it. “But a location is a good start.” He handed the page to Des, who took it with shaking hands. “A certain inmate requested I pass this on to you, Master,” the old man regarded Des, accent thick and hands clasping firmly behind his back.

There was a long pause as Des stared at the piece of paper, reading the address at least fifteen times before looking back up to his elder. Then he recovered from his shock with the almost impatient statement, “Where the hell have you been?”


End file.
